“Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”
We eat in silence for a few seconds before Reggie asks, “Hey, are you okay? You seem a little out of it today.”
The truth is, I’ve been worrying about Dad’s mysterious text almost nonstop since last night. But it’s not like I can just come right out and accuse him of having an affair. Or make a big announcement at breakfast. Why couldn’t yesterday evening not have happened? Until dinnertime, I got to daydream about Jamie, and about how she smiled at me when I said I liked someone who wasn’t Caleb. Then Dad and his stupid texter had to go ruin it all by having a rendezvous with lips and wine tonight.
For a moment I’m tempted to tell them everything—about Dad’s text and how it was from the same number as the one I saw four years ago, about how I convinced myself back then it wasn’t what I thought it was, and how now I’m afraid that the real reason we moved out here wasn’t just another job, but another woman. But I can’t. It’s too humiliating. And somehow, just like last time, I feel like if I keep quiet, if I keep it a secret, it’s still a question. Telling will turn it into an answer.
Se?or Reyes catches me off guard twice during class, which never happens. I can feel Reggie looking at me, and I actually catch her and Elaine exchanging worried glances. I don’t care. This is my problem to solve, and it’s none of their business anyway.
After practice, I go straight home without taking a shower. I just want to be alone. Or with Jamie, I guess, but she had to head right home, too, to babysit her niece. Besides, now that I’m in a place where, when I’m near her, all I can think about is kissing her, it’s confusing to also be worried about Dad. One thing at a time. After a long shower during which I come up with zero ideas about what to do about Dad, I ask Mom, “Is Dad working late again tonight?”
She nods over the chicken she’s dredging in potato starch. “Probably. VC presentation went well, so maybe they will celebrate.” Yeah, I’ll bet he’s celebrating. With Emoji Woman. Mom slides a few pieces of chicken into a wok full of oil, and as they bubble and spatter she turns and looks closely at me. “Sana, kibun warui?”
Well, yes, actually, I feel terrible. I’m worried that Dad is having an affair.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just tired, I guess.”
“Hmm.” Mom turns back to the stove, this time to lift the lid on a pot of kabocha simmering in sweetened soy broth. Then she turns again and comes to me, her face concerned. “Just tired, Honma-ni?” She puts her hand on my forehead.
“Yes, really.” I’m annoyed that she has no idea, annoyed that I can’t tell her without potentially ruining everything, but I submit to her touch. It feels nice to be babied a little.
“Go lie down,” she says. “I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
So I do, and while I’m on the couch, I make up my mind. I get out my phone and text Dad.
Hi, Dad. Heard the presentation went well. When are you coming home?
The phone makes a whooshing sound as the message is sent, and I sit and stare at the screen, willing Dad to respond. It’s six thirty. I wait two minutes. Nothing. Jeez. The least he could do is answer. Even if he’s lying. I’m his daughter, for crying out loud. Then a car door slams outside, and a few seconds later, Dad walks in the door looking tired and pale.
“Jiro-chan mo shindoi no?” says Mom, wiping her hands on her apron as she comes out of the kitchen.
“Mmm. Chotto . . .” Dad shakes his head a little. “I’m feeling a little sick,” he says, and heads toward the bedroom. “I’m just going to lie down.”
Mom scoops the last of the chicken out of the oil, and the pumpkin out of its broth, and spends the next twenty minutes fussing over Dad. It turns out that Dad and his colleagues went out for sushi right after the presentation, and Dad didn’t even make it to the end of dinner. Bad sea urchin, he jokes weakly. I’m relieved that he’s home, and comforted to see how tenderly Mom takes care of him, and how he thanks her. Maybe I was wrong after all. Maybe they do love each other. Maybe things are okay.
But I can’t ignore the feeling that they’re not. It was easy to convince myself that things were okay when I was twelve. Not anymore.
On Saturday Dad is too sick to get out of bed, too sick to do anything but sleep. Mom makes him rice porridge, and brews a concoction of pickled plums, green tea, ginger, and soy sauce. I wonder if this will remind them of how they fell in love. By Sunday evening, Dad is feeling well enough to sit on the couch in the living room, and we all eat ice cream and watch My Neighbor Totoro. It makes me long to have a family like the one in the movie: the handsome, devoted father; the sweet, understanding mother; and two carefree girls, all looked after by magical forest creatures. We could have that. We could. Well, just one carefree girl. And maybe without the magical forest creatures, though that would be nice.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve had an evening like this,” observes Mom.
“Mmm,” Dad says, nodding his head. “We should do this more often.” He ruffles my hair and gives it a tug and says, “I’ll have to try to spend more time at home. I’ve been working too hard. What do you think?”
“Yes!!” I practically shout. This is great. Dad home more often. I can keep track of him. Maybe we can have a family like the one in the movie, after all. It occurs to me that this means that I’ll have to stay home, too, but that’s a small price to pay if it means Dad isn’t having an affair. Dad stretches and goes to take a bath. Mom sits down with her laptop and starts catching up on her email. It’s almost as sweet and cozy as the family in Totoro. Please, please let this be enough. Please let things stay this way. “Good night, Mom.”
“Oyasumi,” she says, and smiles at me.
I’m headed down the hallway to my room when I hear the familiar ping of Dad’s text alert. I pause. Dad probably can’t hear it over the water running into the bath. It’s probably a colleague texting to check on him or ask if he’s well enough to get some report done. Probably nothing. I turn to go into my room. The phone pings again. Hmm. It won’t hurt to check—I’m sure it’s nothing. Dad’s in the bath, the phone’s charging on his bedside table. He wouldn’t just leave it lying around if there were private texts coming in. Unless he didn’t expect them.
I rush in and snatch up the phone.
Jiro-chan, 元気？ 木曜日!
Thursday. She’s having dinner with him on Thursday.
16